No Crystal Stair (32 page)

The pilot of the YC-97 was Captain Banks, a hefty ruddy faced young man with a blond crewcut and pale blue eyes. As the general talked to Rob at the steps of the transport, Banks absented himself to do flight-check chores—deliberately, Rob noted.

The general, however, seemed oblivious and tried to get the pilot's attention. “Say, Banks, I want you to ...”

Banks lifted a hand, polite and deferential, but clearly indicating that he was out of earshot and motioning that the crew chief required his attention. The general nodded and turned back to Rob. “Anything you need during the flight, tell Banks, and keep us informed of the project's status every step of the way.” Rob noticed that Banks stayed some distance off until the noisy start cars were fired up. Talking over that racket was impossible, and this, he decided, was exactly what the pilot wanted. Banks was not about to allow the general to command
him to obey a nigger. Rob shrugged, as if to knock a chip from his shoulder. He could be wrong.

But he didn't think so. He'd encountered this kind of maneuver too many times. And although irritated, he was also amused at the pilot's attempt to maintain protocol while avoiding the command. He watched Banks nod to General McCall and yell over the nose, “You were saying, sir?”

“It's too noisy,” the general yelled back. “Metcalf will fill you in. Have a good trip.”Then he got into his car and departed.

Rob waited for Banks to reappear. His suspicions were confirmed when the pilot stood up and looked him in the eye. “Get on board, boy, if you're going. We're leaving now.” He left Rob to follow as the crew chief pulled in the steps.

Rob shook his head and muttered under his breath, “This is going to be a long hard ride.” He kept his cool, however, and stifled any small talk about the next stop at Brookley Field in Mobile to pick up the aircraft-handling equipment people.

At Mobile they were ready. The last ten men were boarded, and Rob met with the base leadership and was driven back to the aircraft for takeoff. When he arrived, the engines were running and the ramp was about to be removed.

Colonel Wilson, who was driving, got out and asked, “Where's the captain?”

“He's aboard,” the ramp operator said. “He told me to button up, but I saw you coming and waited.”

Rob got out and spoke to Wilson. “No sweat. He's got a problem for some reason. Did you want to speak to him?”

“No. Just to say good luck to our guys.”

“I'll tell them,” Rob said and he hustled up the steps.

Rob was annoyed by the pilot's attitude, but too consumed by the project to worry about it. On the flight to the Bahamas, he found it difficult to explain the necessary details to the captains of the three groups over the noise of four four-bladed propeller driven reciprocating engines and ninety talking passengers. He
went up the flight deck and requested that Banks unlock the crew rest area to make it available for this purpose.

Banks' response was curt and unequivocal. “Request denied.”

“Listen, you—” Rob bit back the “son of a bitch” and made an effort to control his rage. The roar of the engine was nothing compared to the blood pounding in his temples, but he tried to keep his voice rational. “It's impossible to talk back there, and I have instructions I need to convey to the team captains. I'd appreciate it if you would allow—”

“Regulations provide that the crew rest quarters be limited to crew members. Your request is denied.”

Rob made one more attempt. “You do realize that this is a matter of national security and—”

“You do realize that I am the captain of this ship,” Banks replied, smirking.

Rob turned away. No use with an ignoramus. The pilot's taunting words followed him. “Furthermore, when I announce takeoff and departure time, that's it! There will be no exceptions.”

Rob got the message.
I'm in charge, not you!
The only way Banks could maintain his white supremacy. He resented “driving a nigger” as surely as had the woman who'd driven off in front of Rob's face years before. But Banks was stuck with Rob.

More to the point, I'm stuck with him,
Rob thought, trying to stifle his wrath and frustration. He had a job to do, and no time for this racist crap. Maybe, when he got to Ramstein, he'd request another pilot.

Meanwhile he'd manage as best he could. He had his meeting with the group captains in the dining room of the Bachelor Officer's Quarters when they stopped in the Bahamas for a refueling and rest stop. He made sure they all understood that takeoff time was as announced and not a second later.

Many of the hard-drinking mechanics, however, took advantage of the cheap booze available, and two hours into the flight, the noise of the drunken team members drowned out the noise
of the engines. Banks attempted to bring about order, but to no avail. Rob pretended not to hear his remark to one of his flight crew. “Them goddamn drunken civilians! But what can you expect from a crew managed by a boot!”

Two hours later all was quiet. The drunks were asleep, the sun was up and they were over land. Another hour later, Banks greased the YC-97 onto the runway and taxied to Operations at the American base in Seville, Spain. Here, forty-two of the technicians disembarked and Rob hustled off to headquarters, where he briefed commanders there on their piece of the action and left schedules and other necessary data. He also had to brief the Spanish officials, and this took more time. Then he had coffee with Colonel Lemons while finishing his consultation about accommodations for the technicians. Business completed, they climbed into the colonel's car to drive to the flight line for Rob's departure to Ramstein. As they approached the area, both saw the four-engine transport some distance away, already lifting off the ground.

Lemons slowed the car and looked at Rob. “That's your airplane! What the hell is going on?”

Rob said nothing, but he knew exactly what was going on. That dumb son-of-a-bitch pilot had finally managed to dump him. His blood boiled. This was one hell of a time to be caught in a racist game.

Lemons sped to Operations, jumped out of the car and ran into the office. Rob followed and stood, cooling his heels and fuming, while the colonel took the ground-to-air communications console and contacted the aircraft. The loudspeaker was on, and the conversation clearly heard by all in the room.

“Captain Banks, this is Colonel Lemons. What's going on? You left behind the team leader of Project Brass Ring!”

“Sir, as you know, I am captain of this flight. I told that guy we were to take off at 09:45. He wasn't there and, as aircraft commander, I departed on schedule.”

“Captain, don't give me that crap! That aircraft
and you
were assigned for this project. Fly your ass back here or I'll have your bars!”

“Sorry, sir. My orders read to take YC-97-1191 to Seville, Spain, and then to Ramstein and return. I have made the Spanish stop and I am proceeding as ordered.”

The Ops office was in shock. The irate colonel called Air Force Headquarters in Weisbaden and got General Langston, who knew Rob from other duties. He told Rob to stay put, that he'd be picked up by another aircraft. “Sorry it turned out this way,” he said, adding, “We'll take care of Banks. We know his problem.”

And it's a big problem,
Rob thought. Big enough to risk losing your bars. But prejudice wasn't limited to Banks, and Rob was skeptical. Would the pilot really lose his bars or even get a reprimand?

He dismissed the thought. More important things to worry about.

A few hours later Rob was in a C-54 on his way to Ramstein. The aircraft was met by the duty officer, who drove Rob to headquarters where further briefings were given and information exchanged. Then Rob immediately sought out the flight-line chief, knowing from experience that he was the one who'd help marshal the forces and provide the equipment to facilitate any exercise. On an operation as big as Brass Ring, the line chief would be the man in the know, and Rob asked to be taken to him.

He was driven down runways, artfully hidden between rows of trees, to an unobtrusive driveway, which led to a two-room shack. It was a chilly evening and Rob was grateful for the electric heater that gave welcome warmth when he entered.

“Sergeant Felton,” said Rob's driver, “this is Mr. Metcalf.”

Rob moved ahead to quickly shake Felton's hand, gripped by the exultation he always felt when he encountered another black man in charge of an important project. And this time an old friend. “Well, I'll be damned. It's been a few years.”

“Lieutenant Metcalf! It sure has,” said the sergeant.

The driver retired, and the sergeant and Rob became reacquainted and reminisced about the old Tuskegee days.

“So you're a chief master sergeant now,” Rob said. And in charge of the flight line at Ramstein Air Force Base, the largest such installation in the NATO system.

“And you...” Felton reached into a drawer and took out the wire regarding Brass Ring. “I thought it might be you when I first got this. Then I said no, this is a civilian.” He grinned. “Man! Not only are you a civilian. You're the MFWIC of Brass Ring, the biggest operation we've had since the shooting war!”

Rob looked blank. “The M ... what did you say?”

Felton's grin grew wider. “Just something we noncommissioned officers use to put things in perspective. Okay?”

“Okay,” Rob said, still puzzled. “But what —”

“The motherfucker what's in charge, man!”

As they both laughed, there was a knock at the door, followed immediately by the entrance of a two-star general in full regalia—Major General Richard Brewer, Commander of the Eighteenth Air Division, USAFE (United States Air Force, Europe).

Felton stood erect and saluted. “Come in, sir,” he said to the general, who was already in.

“At ease, Sergeant,” the general said as he grabbed Rob's hand. “Rob Metcalf! I'm damn glad you're the guy running this program. Heard about the Banks fiasco. Put it behind you. There'll be no more glitches like that, I guarantee it. This is my command and you'll get what you need when you need it. I've already promised the boss that the planes'll be ready in thirty days. Right?”

Rob assured him they would indeed. They discussed more details, then Brewer secured a car from the motor pool and departed, leaving his staff car and driver at Rob's disposal.

Felton grinned at Rob. “You know, I'm gonna have to change what I said.”

“Now what?” Rob grunted.

“You're the MFWICC.”

“Meaning?”

“The motherfucker what's in
complete
charge.”

They were still laughing when they heard the telltale whine of the C-124 that had landed and was taxiing in. Felton picked up the phone and swung into action, contacting all components and issuing orders. He gave crisp detailed instructions concerning the assembly and storage of the pertinent cargo.

Rob experienced a rush of pride as he watched Felton's expertise at his job.

We're not marching in the streets, Felton and I. But we, and oth— ers like us, also make a difference.

O
n a hot day in August 1963, more than 250 thousand people, black and white, invaded the city of Washington, D.C., in a mammoth march for civil rights.

Rob, his eyes glued to the TV screen, said, “Television sure brings the world to you.”

“Whether you want it or not,” Ann Elizabeth said. She'd been rather negative about the planned march.

With such a mob there was surely going to be a measure of disorderly conduct, even rioting. Possibly a bloodbath. Anyway ... another march. What would it accomplish?

She certainly didn't intend to be there.

But she was there—irrevocably caught up in the enthusiasm of the orderly throng, the eager excitement on the faces of so many people, pressing together, reaching across racial barriers in a plea for human justice. Yes, she was with them, heart and soul.

Others, in other living rooms, must have been as moved as she was. As captivated and inspired by Martin Luther King's dynamic “I Have a Dream.”

And maybe the dream was coming true. President Kennedy met with leaders of the march and pledged his support for a civil rights act.

“He means it,” Rob said. “We've got a good president.”

“And a great first lady,” Ann Elizabeth said, recalling the TV vision of an elegant Jackie Kennedy describing the rooms of the White House she'd refurbished.

“Yep,” Rob said. “We hit the jackpot when we got John Kennedy!”

Yes, she agreed. A young vibrant president, dedicated to human rights. He could make a dream come true.

Three months later, on a crisp November day, Ann Elizabeth was deep in plans for Fran and Pete and their two kids, who were to spend the holiday weekend with them. Pete, a colonel now, was base commander at Hamilton Air Force Base, only eighty miles away, and the two families often visited back and forth. If the weather holds, the men can get in some golf, she thought, lifting fluffy towels from the dryer. She smiled as she heard the whir of the vacuum cleaner suddenly cease. Mrs. Lindsey, her weekly cleaning lady, did an excellent job. But she did it during commercial breaks between her soap operas. Must be “General Hospital,” Ann Elizabeth decided as the television's volume increased.

The she heard Mrs. Lindsey scream. She rushed in to find the woman staring at the television, murmuring, “Oh my God! My God! They done killed my president.”

Ann Elizabeth sank to the sofa, hugging the warm towels as the horror gripped her. She didn't want to believe it.

But the horrible truth flashed before her, over and over again. Tears rained down her cheeks.

Day followed day, blending into an endless grief-stricken blur. Jackie Kennedy in her bloodstained suit... Lyndon Johnson, standing in a plane, taking the oath of office... little “John John” bravely saluting ... the long funeral procession that tore at her heart.

 

 

“The dream didn't die with Kennedy,” Phil said when they dined with the Masons a couple of months later. “We'll get the legislation he promised.”

Ann Elizabeth's spirits lifted. Phil, the leading black attorney in Sacramento, was in the political know. He had campaigned for Kennedy, and he and Laura had twice been entertained at the White House.

“I hope you're right,” Rob said. “But wasn't Johnson on the ticket to get the Southern vote?”

“Oh, he's a Southerner, sure enough, and he knows about discrimination. And doesn't like it!”Phil added, grinning. “More to the point—he's an astute politician who holds a lot of due bills. Trust me. He'll push through legislation that Kennedy couldn't have gotten out of committee!”

Phil's predictions were right. In 1964 President Lyndon Johnson forced through and signed into law the Civil Rights Act, which ended discrimination in public accommodations. The Voting Rights Act was passed a short while later.

It was phenomenal that such changes had come about in her lifetime, Ann Elizabeth thought the following June, when they drove to Atlanta for Bobby's graduation. They'd driven across country, staying at motels and eating in restaurants without being turned away once. They'd actually been treated with courtesy—just like any other customer.

“I'd like to go out to the Fox this afternoon,” she told Rob a few days after the graduation ceremonies. “That's where we went the night we got engaged. Remember?” It was true that Atlanta had been integrated for two years, but she hadn't been to the Fox since that night, more than twenty years before, when they'd sat in the jim crow section.

Now how could such a hard fight for change suddenly seem so simple and easy? Never would she have believed it possible, she thought as they stood in the main lobby of the Fox Theater.
And nobody paid them any attention!

No, that wasn't exactly true. The usher smiled as he took their tickets. The girl at the popcorn stand said “Thank you, sir,” as she handed Rob his change. The fat man who jostled against
her murmured, “Sorry, ma'am. Kinda crowded, ain't it?” But nobody stared or shied away or even looked uncomfortable.

Rob glanced down at her. “Are you all right, honey?”

Ann Elizabeth nodded and loosened her grip on his arm, tried to stem the tide of emotion sweeping through her.

When they were seated, she glanced around the darkened theater. It was magnificent. Encased in niches spaced along the wall and illuminated by tiny lights were sculpted figures almost as exquisite as those she'd seen in Rome. Above, simulated twinkling stars and floating clouds gave a masterful interpretation of open sky. It was like sitting in the great courtyard of a medieval castle. She hadn't known the Fox was so beautiful.

She'd missed so much beauty.

The tip of the floating cloud, glimpsed from the jim crow balcony, had only hinted at the opulence below. And so, of course, had the building itself, viewed from the outside. That wide stone staircase Negroes had to climb—up and up and up, to the colored section.

Dear God, was it so long since she'd climbed those steep outside steps with Rob? Had stretched her arms to the real sky above? She'd felt like a princess looking down from the balustrade of her father's castle. She was incredulous that she'd given no thought to what was missing.

There had been so much joy.

The movie started, but Ann Elizabeth shut her eyes. Remembering.

She couldn't recall the name of the film they'd viewed that long-ago evening, but she remembered it was a love story that had followed them out into the night. She remembered the ride home, her head on Rob's shoulder. The shrill sound of the police siren. The taunting eyes and nasal drawl of the redneck policeman that had seemed to strip Rob of his dignity.

It wouldn't be that way now. A policeman, and he might be black, would be more likely to treat them with respect.

Respect. They could call it whatever they wanted. Integration. Civil rights. But it was respect for you as a person. A person who had the right to sit in a theater, eat at a restaurant, stop at a hotel, go to any hospital, attend any school.

Emory. Hard to believe that Bobby had been accepted by the medical school at Emory.

In her day no Negro could get near the place.

Well, yes. Once. She remembered sitting in a classroom at Emory, back in her student days. She'd sat, planning a homecoming outfit, while others talked about race relations. Thinking of those serious dedicated faces, she felt a little guilty. So complacent she'd been. It was as if she'd sat by while others propelled her into a fuller life.

Well, she had participated, hadn't she? Okay, but she'd done it reluctantly, especially in Maggie's case.

And how had that affected Maggie? It was hard to be a first and therefore considered different. And in the places they'd lived, Maggie had often been an only or at least one of the few. And now... It bothered Ann Elizabeth that Maggie was so withdrawn, that she buried herself in books.

She never worried about Bobby. Boys, maybe because of sports, seemed to adjust more easily. And Bobby,with his Randy-like carefree ways, seemed happy wherever he was. Dad was so excited about Bobby's admission to Emory. “Opportunities, facilities, training that were never available to me,” he'd said.

Ann Elizabeth smiled. Why did she always consider happy more important than opportunity when it came to her children?

She tried to concentrate on the film, but the memories kept crowding in.

Later she was quiet as Rob drove across town and up through the familiar curving driveway to her parents' house. The lawn was as carefully groomed as ever, the woodwork freshly painted. But the house somehow seemed smaller, perhaps in contrast to the fabulous residences of younger and more prosperous
Negroes. Someone had told her that Grayline now hosted a tour through the black residential district. Worth seeing, Ann Elizabeth thought. Helen Rose's new house was incredible! But she liked Sadie's better. It was smaller and cozy, yet still large enough for the entertaining they had to do, both in Dan's capacity as a department head at Spalding, and for the black social elite, who were kowtowing to Sadie now that she was Dr. Trent's wife. Ann Elizabeth grinned. Sadie was handling it. She and Dan seemed very happy.

Bobby's voice floated through the screen door as they reached it. “Don't give me that old line ”What matters is how you play the game.” It ain't true. The name of the game is win, boy. Win!” he said as he needled Butch, his faithful but unathletic friend. His infectious laugh rang out. Randy. Bobby might look like Rob, but the wit, the humor, the braggadocio was Randy all over again. No wonder people loved him.

Rob grinned at his son. “I take it you won the tennis match.”

“Better believe it. Three straight sets. My man here needs to work on his backhand.”

“Come, sit down and have a bite to eat,” Julia Belle said. “We've just finished but there's lots left. Everything's still hot.”

Ann Elizabeth glanced around the table at her parents, Aunt Sophie, Butch and Cindy, Bobby's girlfriend. “Where's Maggie?”

Julia Belle smiled. “Where else? Upstairs, reading.”

Sophie's Charm bracelet jangled. “Helen Rose tried to get her to go with them to the Jack and Jill picnic, but she refused. You need to do something about that child, Ann Elizabeth.”

“That child is just fine!” Only to Rob and Julia Belle would she admit her concerns about Maggie.

“Sit here, Mrs. Metcalf.” Cindy relinquished her chair to Ann Elizabeth and began to clear the table. The sandals on her bare feet fairly danced as she sped back and forth, and the ruffled hemline of her pink sundress swayed provocatively about
long slender tan legs. Ann Elizabeth sighed. Surely she wasn't jealous of her son's girlfriend!

Cindy tossed back long black hair, not entirely secured by the pink band, and told Bobby to get up and let his dad have the chair.

Rob said no, he was fine going into the family room to watch the baseball game.

“Has it begun?” Dr. Carter glanced at his watch.

“Five minutes ago.”

Dr. Carter followed Rob. The boys also started toward the family room, but Cindy called Bobby back. “Wait until I fix this tray for your father.”

Bobby waited.

That's what I don't like
Ann Elizabeth decided. That proprietary air, telling Bobby when to come and when to go. She smiled graciously as Cindy handed her a plate heaped with turnip greens, fried chicken, sliced tomatoes and cucumbers, corn muffins.

Julia Belle half rose from her chair, but Cindy protested, “No, Mrs. Carter. Sit still. I'll stack the dishwasher. Shall I put the rest of these greens in this container?”

By the time Ann Elizabeth finished eating, Cindy had stacked the dishes, stored the leftovers wiped the kitchen counters and summoned Bobby from the baseball game to take her home. She had to have time to wash her hair if they were going to the fraternity dance tonight. Bobby, with Butch in tow, followed her out.

Sophie, watching Bobby's car go down the driveway, remarked that he might as well have a collar round his neck, the way that girl led him around.

“My sentiments exactly,” said Ann Elizabeth.

Julia Belle laughed. “A little bossy perhaps. But she's quite sweet.”

“Too sweet!” Sophie mimicked, “Let me do this, Mrs. Carter. I'll get that! You mark my words, she'll have Bobby's ring on her finger before he gets into medical school! She's trying to wheedle her way into this family, just like her ma wheedled her way into the Ladies.”

“Oh, Sophie!”

“You know that's true, Julia Belle. Essie Campbell was over here every day, bringing you flowers or a cake and inviting you to this or that. Licking your behind until you sponsored her for membership.”

“Oh, Sophie, don't start that again!”

“Don't start what?” Dr. Carter asked as he and Rob returned to the kitchen.

“Nothing,”Julia Belle answered. “Sophie's talking about the Ladies.”

“Oh, the
Ladies,
” Dr. Carter said.

“What are they?” Rob asked.

“Not what, my boy. Who.”

Julia Belle rolled her eyes at her husband. “I thought you were watching the ball game.”

“Seventh-inning stretch. We came for our ice cream before the eighth inning.”

“Let me get it for you.” Ann Elizabeth moved toward the ice-cream freezer. “Rob, lift this into the sink for me. It's getting soft. I'd better pack it.”

Rob picked up the freezer as Dr. Carter continued, “Rob my boy, your social education has been sadly neglected if you don't know who the Ladies are.”

“Tell me,” Rob said as he took out the inner canister, poured the ice into the sink and rinsed the bucket.

“A most select society culled from the cream of colored women. Those well born, well padded, well married or all three.”

Sophie rattled her charm bracelet vehemently. “You may say what you like, Will Carter. But we are a national organization with important responsibilities, and we have high standards for membership. We have to be careful who we take in.”